Red Barn People by Hunter Liguore “Roland,”
I called out, though I knew I was alone. The car was still
vacant from the drive. And then I heard it. The sound of
metal hitting stone echoing in the distance.
I climbed the hill towards the red barn. Roland’s handsome
shape drove the shovel deep into the earth. As I came upon
the hole, I could see he had dug an entirely bigger one, and
already started to fill it.
He didn’t look up at me, but spoke, knowing I was there.
“Uncle Martin, before he died, told me there are two kinds
of people in the world. Two kinds,” he repeated, wiping the
sweat from his brow with his dirty sleeve, resting the crook
of his elbow on the shovel. “The first kind, he said, are
red barn people, the kind that go about this earth
unnoticed, with a stern chin and without expression. These
kinds of people are born old, and stay old, and never
experience an ounce of joy. Bitterness is their vice in
life.” He shoveled more dirt into the hole; a small mound
started to form. “Then there are the other kinds of people.
Those, he said, were the yellow house people. They’re the
kind who go through life with a sweet smile, no matter if
it’s raining rocks and pebbles, or if it’s raining sunshine.
These kind of people don’t know the meaning of despair.” He
stuck the shovel in the dirt, and left it upright, as he
pressed his boots into the dirt to pat it down, leaving a
series of imprints on the red soil. “One of the last things
Uncle Martin ever said to me was ‘Roland, don’t go through
life like a red barn fool, because when all the days of your
life are lined up in front of you, you’ll be burdened with
regret.’” Roland shook his head.
“You think you’ve been a red barn?”
“I know so.”
“What about me, Roland, you think I’ve been one too?” “No.” He
stepped on the mound to get to me, symbolically crossing the
chasm that had been between us. He took my hand and kissed
it. “Thankfully, you’ve never been close.”
“But I’m also not the yellow house.” I glanced up to those
wonderful eyes, dusting the flecks of dirt from his chin.
“I’ve been
thinking all night, haven’t slept a wink, see, and all this
thinking brought me to you. You’re neither a red barn or a
yellow house, Lillian. You’re the woman I’ve loved and am
going to love the rest of my life, no matter how long or
short it is. I don’t want to waste another minute, Lil.”
From his pocket he slid out a single gold ring, one that was
worn with age. “Aunt Clara gave this to me to give to a kind
girl when the time was right. And all these years, I was too
blind to see it was you, Lil.” He tried the ring on each of
my fingers until he found the closest fit. “Say you’ll
forgive me?” He didn’t wait for my answer, knowing my
thoughts when I lifted my lips to kiss him. “I’ll take
that as a yes.”
“Yes, Roland.
Nothing to forgive.”
The
repetitious honking from the automobile pulling in the drive
led us back down the hill, arm in arm. Jennagirl sat on the
top of the bench seat, with her arm hanging proudly over the
shoulders of the sassy woman, whom she introduced to us as
Molly. Before anyone could’ve said another word, she told
Roland that Molly was moving in. Today. This was made
perfectly evident by the protruding trunk jammed into the
back seat.
“Good,” said
Roland, lifting my hand to show Jennagirl the ring. “Now I
don’t have to worry you’ll be lonesome when I move in
yonder.” He raised his chin toward Mother’s house.
Jennagirl let out a hoot and hugged her brother around the
neck, as he lifted her out of the car, twirling her in a
circle. Molly and I made acquaintances, and I led her into
the kitchen for coffee, as brother and sister fought over
the correct way to pull the trunk free.
Standing from
the porch door I watched the new glow nestle like a
foundling bird over both houses, into the hearts of Roland,
Jennagirl, Molly, and me. The winter world that began at
different points for each of us, and formed an icy globe
around our lives, had finally broken. We were free of it.
Free of it. Finally free.
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